


Multiple Choice

by everylemon



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Brotherhood: Final Fantasy XV, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-17 01:01:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28965768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/everylemon/pseuds/everylemon
Summary: Noct rests his cheek on his knuckles and reads the essay prompt over and over, like it’s Old Lucian he can’t parse. He’s starting to get a headache behind his right eye. What would he do? If he could do anything? Be anything?Why would anyone ask him that?
Comments: 18
Kudos: 52





	Multiple Choice

**Author's Note:**

> Oh hey! Here's some 100% gratuitous high school angst.

The teacher ambles into Noct’s class for the final exam of their final year of high school, and the conversations about grades and plans for after graduation and college acceptances all die down. Graduation is coming, so fast; the thrum of excitement has been steadily rising, as has the sudden nostalgia.

Their language arts teacher passes out the essay booklets, marked at the top with their prompt, and she’s smiling like this time to write is a gift from the Astrals themselves. Crystal earrings swing from her earlobes, though she’s dressed in a dull suit besides, like all their other teachers. She’s definitely the most . . . out there, though. She's known for cornering unsuspecting students during lunch and inquiring about their feelings.

Someone giggles at the prompt before Noct gets his essay booklet. That’s a first.

The girl in front of him passes him the stack for their row. He takes one, passes the rest behind him, and opens his to read the prompt: _If you could do anything in the world with your life, what would you choose?_

He can feel his whole body tense. He's gripping the pencil way too tightly. His neck feels stiff. If this were a training session, Gladio would definitely be telling him to _loosen the hell up_.

He glances up to see that the formerly nervous mood in the room has been completely relaxed, though. They’d been expecting to have to craft a persuasive essay based on a primary document from early Lucian history; instead, they’ve been given a graduation-themed softball. The girl next to him is scribbling away furiously, like an hour isn’t gonna be enough time to chronicle all her hopes and dreams.

Noct rests his cheek on his knuckles and reads it over and over, like it’s Old Lucian he can’t parse. He’s starting to get a headache behind his right eye. What would he do? If he could do anything? Be anything?

Why would anyone ask him that?

He’s come out the other side of his pettiest teenage rebellions. There’s little more detestable than people with money, position, and power throwing pity parties (and he throws them anyway, sure, but he knows they’re not cute). No one asked him if he wanted any of it, but he still benefits. He’s had every possible benefit. He may not want 95% of it, but the 5% that’s left, he sure enjoys.

And he might be the only Prince of Lucis, but he’s sure not the only one without a choice in life. Poverty eats choices and dreams for _breakfast_ , and there are a lot of people in this city who live in poverty; he knows the number below that line, and the number just above that line, and they’re both overwhelming.

Besides that: His father didn’t choose. Luna didn’t choose. Ignis didn’t choose. Gladio didn’t choose. It’s easy to forget sometimes, because to him, they all seem to rise to their roles so perfectly. They embrace them and they seem to fit. Meanwhile, he drowns in something too big for him. But it’s not fair to pretend he’s the only one who was born into something.

What would he do? He has no idea. Prompto teases him about running off to become a fisherman, but nah. Why turn something you love into a duty?

It’s not like he has some talent or burning passion for anything else, he thinks as he turns the pencil in his grip with his thumb. His main hobby is video games. He’s got a competitive streak during sparring bouts, but if he could choose to never hurt another human being, he would. He is mostly good at things he does not like by virtue of long practice: fighting, formal etiquette, feigning interest in what important people are saying.

What would he do, were he not the Crystal’s Chosen? Maybe like, sleep in on Saturdays? Oh, he’d have friends and family who didn’t have to pledge their lives to his service . . . or maybe he wouldn’t, who knows, it's not like he's made many friends on his own merit. And he’d probably still play video games.

He could be a part-time cook forever, like some of the people he’s worked with. He could drop frozen egg rolls into hot oil and fetch them when they were golden-crispy, and chat with the other cooks, and gossip about the servers, and get screamed at by the boss sometimes. He could do that forever, he thinks.

Or maybe not. Maybe he’d chafe at that life just like he chafes at this one. He does know he could go his whole life without seeing a silver spoon again and never miss it.

He can’t.

The hour is up. Everyone leaves their essays on the teacher’s desk before they go. He’s the last, and he doesn’t bother to explain himself, just slides the untouched booklet onto the and turns to leave. This will pull his grade down, but it’s not like it’s ever actually mattered what his grades are. They can’t affect his future.

“Interesting,” the teacher says, lightly, as if she’s remarking on the weather. “That you would choose a blank page.”

He turns towards her with his heart in his throat, but she shoos him out the door.


End file.
